Love Bytes
by CatatonicVanity
Summary: One man's nightmare is another man's dream. But when dreams decay into nightmares, a vicious, never-ending cycle begins. -Co-Authored by CatatonicVanity and Mello's Favorite Reject
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **Mello's Favorite Reject and CatatonicVanity do not own DN or anything referenced.

**A/N**: So... I shouldn't be posting a new story. This is co-authored between CV and MFR. The idea belongs to MFR and is amazing and brilliant. Now, about Terminal and CR-R (to those of you that read those) I've hit a block. Serious writer's block on those two fronts. I don't know when I'll get my inspiration back. Sorry! That being said, review!

Mail Jeevas, better known as Matt, was late. He was usually late, and his chronic tardiness was often overlooked by his German teacher. But even he wouldn't be able to overlook how late he was today.

The sound of jeers met Matt's ears, making him look over. In an alleyway, he saw a little albino boy surrounded by tall, buff kids. Matt looked at his watch and swore, growling as he dropped his bag at the entrance to the alley and took off running.

"Oi! Leave him alone, you overgrown assholes!" Matt shouted. When all eyes turned to him Matt quickly deduced that he had five opponents and that the albino he was rescuing couldn't fight for shit. The boy's white hair was matted with dirt and blood, his left eye was blackening and bruises were beginning to form. His white clothes were ripped and stained.

Matt was soon surrounded. He circled with his hands raised defensively, watching his opposition carefully. He heard shuffling behind him and lashed out a backwards kick, smirking when it connected with the attacker's stomach. He came around in a right hook that was intercepted. An uppercut met his stomach, causing him to double over gasping. Then a jab hit between his shoulder blades, sending him forward into another uppercut that was supposed to connect with his chin. Instead, it caught him under the nose.

There was a sickening _snap_, a gasp, and blood started spurting over the assailant's hands. Matt fell to the ground, his body oddly resembling that of a ragdoll. One of his attackers' nudged him over with his foot, flipping the redhead.

Strangled gasps broke from all five at the sight. Matt's mouth was open, as were his eyes, once vibrant and now dull. His nose was broken in many places, crooked and shaped oddly while gushing blood. The cartilage in the bridge of his nose had been shoved into the frontal lobe of his brain.

Mail Jeevas died on May 5, 2006 at 9:35 am. His killers ran with their figurative tails between their legs, trying to wipe the blood off on the walls.

The albino left behind crawled to the body, checking for a pulse, though he knew his actions were in vain. When he felt nothing, he held his fingers over the redhead's paling lips, feeling for breath. Then he reached out and closed the dull green eyes.

Nate Rivers rifled around in Matt's vest pocket, extracting a cell phone and dialing 911. He explained the situation in a stoic voice, requesting emergency vehicles. He then went to the redhead's bag, looking for some form of identification. He found sloppily written school papers and was able to make out 'Mail Jeevas'.

Emergency vehicles arrived. Mail was loaded onto a stretcher to be taken to the hospital for an autopsy. Nate got a ride in the police car to the station, where he told his story. A sketch artist by the name of Linda sat in the room with him while he described each of his attackers. When she was finished, she laid the papers out before the white haired boy, who nodded.

"Yes, that's what they looked like. This is the one that delivered the fatal blow."

"Thank you Mr. Rivers. We will be calling you for more questions, so please be expecting that." Nate nodded and took his leave.

...

"Mello, I have a favor to ask of you." Nate's blonde friend and roommate groaned and hung his head over the back of the couch.

"What is it Sheepy?" he asked, dubbing the cocaine haired boy affectionately.

"There is a funeral in four days. I wish you to come with me." Mello sat up straight and looked around.

"Who died?"

"Mail Jeevas." Mello cocked his head to the side.

"Who the fuck is that?" he asked. Nate sighed and sat down on the floor, pulling his leg up to his chest.

"He's the boy that was killed yesterday defending me. I'd never met him, and so I shouldn't know anyone there, but I would appreciate it if Mello came with me to pay respects." Mello bit his lower lip, letting his head fall on the arm of the couch. He'd been to his fair share of funerals and if he could avoid it, he didn't want to go to another. But... This Jeevas character did deserve respect.

"Yeah, I'll go. Do you have anything to wear?" Nate nodded. "M'kay. What time?"

"I believe the viewing is to be at 2:00 and the funeral at 3:00." Mello sighed.

"Alright."

...

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," mumbled faceless people as they walked by Mr. Jeevas. The man had tear tracks on his cheeks and his eyes were red and puffy. No one particularly caught his eye and he ignored everyone, until a white haired child took his hand.

"Hello Nate," the man whispered, voice cracking. Nate shook his hand gently and nodded, as did the well dressed blonde behind him. Somehow, even if he didn't really know either, the gesture was more comforting than condolences.

Mr. Jeevas left eventually, exhausted and emotionally drained. But when he got home, he saw Mail's laptop on the couch where he'd left it and an idea struck him. The man went to his study and booted up his expensive, state of the art computer and began typing.


	2. Chapter 1

**Title: **Love Bytes

**Summary: **One man's nightmare is another man's dream. When dreams turn to nightmares, it becomes a never-ending cycle. -Co-Authored between CatatonicVanity and Mello's Favorite Reject.

**Disclaimer: **Neither CV or MFR own DN or anything that may be referenced. The plot is semi-cliché but the wordplay is credited to either writer.

Author's Note(s): So, people seem to be confused about this, so here's the next chapter.

…

**CHAPTER ONE:**

News of his 16 year old son's death commenced in the form of a phone call. Three simple rings; anyone could have been calling for whatever reason, but as that third and final ring chimed and the phone was picked up, an apathetic voice gave Harry Jeevas the most horrid words he'd ever heard.

"_Mr. Jeevas, sir, this is Doctor Hugh Gotbetter. Can you come to St Severall's' Hospital? I have some news about your son…"_

Harry had no way of knowing just how foreboding such words were, but he was about to find out. He quickly ran to his computer and inspected the program he, as a technological engineer, had been working on. His eyes were greeted with a hex code and he inwardly groaned, wondering what had gone wrong. And, though he was frustrated that his deadline was near and his work was incomplete, he ejected his disk and shut everything down, grabbing his jacket and running out the door to his car.

His son came first in his life. Young Mail was all Harry had left after the departure of the maternal figure. Harry couldn't afford to lose his son.

-Little did he know… that he already had.

He took his car -a handsome Mustang GT whose flushed carburetor and fucked engine aided some father/son bonding over the mediocre restoration.

Arriving at St Severall's Hospital, Harry parked the car, got out, and raced inside, briskly striding through the lobby and up to the first person he could find in a white coat. "Is there a Mail Jeevas here?" he asked anxiously, failing to conceal his worry.

The nurse in question took on a sympathetic expression and seemed at a loss for words. However, before Harry could ask again, a white-clad boy approached timidly, sporting a swollen and bruised face and dirtied clothes.

The boy cleared his throat and spoke softly. "Mr. Jeevas? Your son was an amazing person. He-"

"_Was_? What did he do? He didn't beat you up, did he? He's not the type to-"

"No, sir. Your son… saved my life. And he died doing so. For that, I am truly sorry."

The pale boy's mouth kept moving, but Harry didn't hear a word after that, senses failing him after he'd registered the news. He wordlessly directed his attention to the aforementioned nurse and was led through a maze of halls and doors until they reached room 404.

Entering the room, Harry noticed that everything was white and sterile and smelled strongly of disinfectant. He then caught sight of the blanketed form of a redheaded teen who laid on the gurney, eyes closed and skin paling to the extent of turning grey.

"Mail?" he questioned aloud, voice naught but a whisper as he approached with a cautiously outstretched hand, wanting to offer and receive a comfort that could no longer be permitted. "Matt…" he said a bit louder as he grew close enough to press his palms next to his son's lifeless form; he remained motionless, hovering over the body and silently inspecting the visible damage.

A few cuts and bruises were visible, but they didn't look too worrisome. What _did _appear rather concerning was slight misshape of the teen's nose and the bruising and bleeding that had accrued around it.

The father was vaguely aware of the details that were being rattled off to him about what had happened, but his mind was elsewhere. His body shook with angst his face refused to heed, and after a small eternity, he broke down and sobbed, fisting the sheets that covered his otherwise nude son's corpse.

"We did everything we could," said a man whose name tag read Doctor Hugh Gotbetter. "We tried, but after the traumatic blow he received, there was nothing we could do."

More of the one-sided conversation was spouted, but again it went without registration.

When Harry found himself capable, he called his lawyer and financial adviser; he spoke with the local mortician; he signed all the necessary paperwork and left no expenses unpaid as he made funeral arrangements.

…

The obituary was the worst, seeming so impersonal and listing the redhead as nothing more than a statistic as his name appeared amongst the several others that had died of trivial causes on that same dreaded day.

But the thought of practical advertising of one's expiration was nothing compared to the pain and despair that occurred on the day of the Showing.

It was, as per usual, 2-4 in the afternoon and 7-9 in the evening. Of course, the immediate family was granted to arrive an hour early to grieve properly without an audience. And Harry Jeevas was the only one who showed; there were no siblings, no maternal figure, no aunts or uncles or grandparents. Just Harry, all by his lonesome as he held his embalmed son's lifeless hand and ran a hand through those bright red locks that expressed their family heritage.

Harry felt himself breath in shudders and pained gasps rather than his usually calm respirations as he fully absorbed the sight of Mail, whose dying complexion was aided with cosmetics that altered his appearance; his hair was brushed all wrong, and the formal clothes were nothing like the teen would usually wear.

This cadaver looked like a stranger.

Realizing this, Harry was stricken with a new woe; to spare himself further cries, he tore himself away from the rosewood casket and wiped his prickling eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "My son…" he murmured softly, "didn't deserve to die." Slowly, he began to walk away, feet falling heavily and heart feeling as if it had dropped into the pit of his stomach. His body felt so heavy and lethargic, and he subconsciously supposed it was an early warning sign of the oncoming depression that he would surely face. On his way out, he caught sight of something akin to a spirit.

The white-shrouded figure had his stomach tied up in knots, twisting and churning to further add to the ache that came with mourning. However, after doing a double take, it was plain to see that the figure was naught but an ordinary boy: the very same boy that had completed the telling of his son's demise.

"Nate River," the boy introduced himself solemnly. "I'm terribly sorry for what happened to your son," he added, trying his best to portray the sympathy he honestly felt, though… he never was good in such situations. With an awkward shift, he offered a formal handshake.

Harry forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes and, though he didn't reach out to take Nate's hand, he did spontaneously wrap his arms around the smaller male, hugging and squeezing tightly as his eyes squinted and he finally obtained a little of the comforting warmth he'd been needing. "Nate… thank you. I'm sure, if given the chance, my son would have considered you a friend. Mail was a nice boy. Really smart. And he got along with just about everybody."

Wordlessly, the albino remained in that embrace until he awkwardly returned the gesture with an additional pat on the back. "I… will offer any help I can, sir."

"Please, call me: Harry. My son would appreciate the casual pretense. He called me by name, and he preferred to go by a nickname. He was funny like that, but so smart. -Without him, I'm not even sure I'll be able to keep up with work." He finally dropped his arms and pulled away from Nate before wiping his own leaking eyes and taking a deep breath in hopes of calming down.

The rest of the Showing(s) consisted of friends and associates coming and going, sometimes being brief and other times attempting to offer support. Nate left late, being picked up by a blonde male who dressed in a t-shirt and faded jeans.

"Near, get your grieving ass over here," he said irritably, cocking a hip and jingling the keys for emphasis.

"_Near_?" questioned Harry as he easily heard the loud blonde's bombast.

"It's a nickname," murmured Nate. "Likewise, his nickname is Mello; he's… sort of… my friend. -Do you mind if he accompanies me to the funeral tomorrow?" Near asked with genuine concern, wanting to be polite, given the circumstances.

Harry shrugged dismissively, thoughts going back to his son. "It's fine. You know what time to show up?"

"I do; I won't be late."

…

The funeral came too soon but time lagged all the same. Harry Jeevas was dragging his feet as he moved from task to task, feeling incredibly overwhelmed. He had the floral arrangements in place and had (thankfully) managed to construct a steely façade of welcoming upon himself; to do this, he trapped his mind in his work, mentally going over checks and reprisals and design concepts to the program he and his son had been creating together.

So, after selecting a cross between an alternating soft-jazz play list and the song _Superhero (It's Not Easy)_ by _Five For Fighting_, he signed his name first in the personalized Grid-print guestbook and went about adjusting the pictures and testing the that the audio and visual matched on the clips that played on the large screen.

He grabbed a memorandum and looked it over, the pads of his fingers barely grazing the calligraphic design as he read his son's name, date of birth and death, and the classic scripture: Psalm 23 (The King James version).

_**Mail Jeevas**_

_**02/01/1990 - 05/05/06**_

_**The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.**_

Slipping the scripted memorabilia into his pocket, he prepared himself for greeting the oncoming guests.

Just as he did so, the fancy double doors opened and people of all ages poured in, all in their Sunday best. One by one and two by two, guests greeted Harry, all saying that they were sorry for his loss and what a wonderful boy Mail/Matt was.

Smiles and hugs were passed like the common cold; tears were forcedly kept to a minimum; and stories were told like Gospel.

Nate entered with Mello in tow, signing the guestbook, grabbing a memorandum and taking in the scent of lilac and carnations while observing the vast variety of people as well as the spread, consisting of (literally) hundreds of large bouquets and bundles and wreaths supplied by wealthy associates.

"Rich fuckers," murmured the blonde distastefully, crossing his arms and attempting to blend in and avoid confrontation.

Nate ignored his companion's opinion, simply muttering: "thanks for coming with me," before merging with the crowd and listening to a preacher drone on and on about Heaven and God and all the holy shit people were supposed to believe in, but none of that humdrum meant a thing compared to the speeches that followed.

A small nameless child approached the casket, eyes wide and tearful as she spoke about how Mail had helped her make friends and do well in school. This child could be no more than seven years old, but upon closer inspection, it was notable that she was blind. She talked highly of how well he described things, and how she could almost imagine how blue the sky might be. She walked away with a stagger as she headed over to her mother and father.

Then a nerdy teen with acne and thick glasses walked up, muscles tense and suspenders tight. He cleared his throat and spoke nasally about how the redheaded teen had introduced him to chess and helped him fit in. He smiled brightly as he spoke, revealing braces and a sense of security that was hard to obtain in today's society.

Next came an overweight businessman in a nice pressed suit and cornflower blue tie. He sucked in his gut and bellowed about how Mail had been such a smart lad who aided his investments. He made jokes about how he knew Mail when he was a wee lad who still wanted to grow up and be a superhero.

A gruff-looking man with an abundance of facial hair, a bloated belly, and an overall large stature, hobbled to the front and spoke with a thick hick accent as he told his own tale about how young Mail changed his oil and pointed out the easiest way to put in a new spark plug. He told his version of a conversation they had and how they each had a root beer when it was all done.

Then there was a small gothic group who rapped off dark-themed poetry about the virtues of life and death.

A couple of odd-looking teens stepped up, using numbers to aid the suppression of their sadness as they spoke highly of being best friends, goofing off in school and hanging out on weekends, playing videogames -everything from classic RPG's to co-op MMO's; they laughed as they recalled good times and wiped one another's tears and reclaimed their seats.

An aging woman sang a religious song that she felt fit the occasion.

Several other speakers came and went, and finally the albino walked up and shared his story. "I didn't know Mail very well; I barely knew him. But, on the day I met him, I feared for my life, being cornered in a darkened alley; I thought I was going to be killed. -It started as a simple mugging, I think. They cornered me, pinned me to the wall, and raided my belongings, taking all my money and valuables and then delivering blows. It hurt; it was painful; they tore at my clothes and taunted me all the while. I was humiliated and full of dread, but then… I heard his voice. I had no way of knowing he'd be my savior, but when he raced onto the scene without the slightest hesitation and delivered Justice to them, I felt nothing but respect and admiration. I had full intentions on thanking and finding a way to repay him, but…" he paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts; the audience seemed to hold onto his every word, giving their full attention. "But then he took a blow as well, and after a few unfair shots, there was a horrible sound, and he fell. And…" he didn't go on; he didn't need to.

Everyone was either crying or consoling at this point, and Harry approached and hugged the albino. With mild reluctance, he hugged back.

Meanwhile, the blonde whom had accompanied Nate wandered over to the casket and stole a look at the deceased; he looked at him carefully and scowled. "Lucky bastard. Everyone loved you. Your life was probably easy, huh?" He sighed bitterly and closed his eyes. "Too bad you died, huh? Was it worth it? I mean, in the end, you saved my friend, so… I should thank you, but… what about you? Near was a stranger to you, and yet you died for him… I don't get it." Pulling away from the deceased, he looked around and felt completely out of place. Granted, he was glad to come and be supportive, he felt completely empty. He didn't know these people; none of this affected him. It seemed like a waste of time, really.

But Near cared, and so should he, he told himself.

Eventually, Nate walked over and took his hand. "Mello," he said simply, "after the burial, I've been offered dinner at Harry's -Mail's father. Would you like to come? It'd give you a longer break from home."

The blonde shrugged awkwardly, not wanting to intrude but despising the idea of going home, all the same. To avoid answering right away, he stepped aside and feigned interest in the display of pictures that lined the walls and boards that were tastefully on parade.

On one section could be seen annual family portraits, starting with three happy people -a woman, a man, and their newborn son, and then progressing until the woman grew weary and vanished from pictures, leaving just the father and son. In its own way, it told a story; the altering expressions completed the untold drama, allowing one's imagination to relate what might have happened.

Another set of pictures was labeled Mail the Mechanic. The first photo was of the small redhead wearing too-big overalls, holding a plastic hammer in one hand and a rubber saw in the other as he pretended to fix his Power Wheel's Jeep. The photo beneath that showed him a little older, holding a wrench and adjusting his bike seat. Another one showed him covered in oil and grease and watching his dad fix the car. The one after that showed him leaning over, head and arms working beneath the hood. The final photo on this display showed the redhead in casual clothes, tool belt around his waist, arms crossed and several business men standing around him; they all appeared to be at a car show, and it was evident that Mail had assisted in restoring the beautiful automobiles.

Then there was a set of pictures for Mail and His Friends. Kids of all ages and cliques accompanied him from photo to photo, sometimes offering smiles, goofy expressions, sporting a game controller, or even appearing to study. There were pictures of the redhead nervously holding a mic and doing karaoke; pictures of him at in a baseball uniform with his teammates; pictures of him eating pizza or simply being part of an event involving his peers. All in all, it seemed pretty average.

Then, of course, there was a display that read: Mail the Significant, in which there were pictures of him with vast awards, from ribbons to trophies in regards to his intellectual prowess; pictures of him shaking hands with the mayor; and even pictures of him helping his dad with various activities.

Next there were pictures solely of Mail and his father Harry, and to the left of that were pictures of Mail attending formal banquets and meeting the wealthy business men that were distantly connected with his father's work or his own academics.

-The redhead appeared to live a very full life, perhaps too full, Mello thought as he wondered if the teen had any privacy or personal issues… after all, even poster children had shit going on in their lives, right? Surely there was more to this teen than what was presented…

Then again, Mail Jeevas was deceased, so it hardly mattered anymore.

The blonde then turned to see the large screen, upon which the projection of home movies seemingly played on a loop was. In the beginning, the mother was present and the trio couldn't be happier, lounging around a large home and looking like a busy little family with a newborn baby. Then it changed up and the woman seemed frustrated, but the growing child was all smiles and excitement as he stood in his Superman costume and proudly jumped off the furniture, pretending to fly; meanwhile, the father was hard at work, fingers on a keyboard and body hunched over a laptop. Then the child was a bit older and the mother was gone completely; he seemed to fill the void with taking an interest in his father's work, for in almost every clip after that, he was either by his father's side or doing something helpful for the community.

Mello watched with waning interest until the reel began to repeat itself, and throughout the whole thing, only one part really caught his attention; there was a clip seemingly filmed without the redhead's knowledge, in which he wasn't hard at work or showing off a bright smile. No, in this clip, he was sitting in a chair, facing away from his computer with his head in his hands; frustration was evident in his demeanor as he turned his attention back to the screen and proceeded to pick apart and re-hinge the codes that flooded the monitor; when he was decidedly finished, he got up, grabbed a glass of tea, and walked off. Granted, that scene held no real significance, but it appeared to be the only one with the redhead being completely alone, and the expression on his face for that brief moment reminded the blonde of one he wore almost permanently.

That alone told Mello that there was indeed more to the redheaded teen than everyone wanted to portray, but… whatever was behind the vibrant eyes of the poster-child was something that could never be revealed.

Death was a bitch like that, taking away people before they could fully express who they were in the world.

-After some time, this segment of the funeral was concluded, the casket was shut and bolted and six pallbearers with stony faces gathered to pick up the casket and dutifully cart it out and into the hearse; meanwhile, the location of the burial plot was announced and the audience filed out, starting with the back row and, in single file, ending with Mello, Nate, and Harry treading last, climbing into the expensive new Cadillac that would serve as their transport.

The drive to the plot was nothing significant; Harry was a mess of sadness and feigned acceptance; Nate attempted consolation, which wasn't his strong suit; and Mello simply felt out of place as the long line of vehicles made their way to the cemetery.

They arrived within minutes but it took a small eternity for everyone to find parking spaces and evacuate their vehicles before huddling around the gravesite.

Again, the pallbearers were carrying the casket, setting it on rods that suspended it over the hole it would eventually be cast into; floral arrangements were neatly placed around and on top. A preacher spoke; kind words were offered, wishing the teen a chance at God's mercy; tears were shed, and everyone placed a single flower around the grave, some whispering their final goodbyes and others biting back sobs. When Mello's turn came, all he could mutter was a condescending: "it's over; whatever pleasures or pains you went through… they mean nothing. Now what? You're leaving everyone behind…" As he said this, of course, he kept his voice low and out of range of prying ears because the connotation of his words and thought only made sense to himself and (maybe) the albino that had become somewhat involuntarily attached to him.

When all was said and done and everyone began to leave, the blonde couldn't help but look back to see that casket lowered (everyone else had decided to file out before watching the actual burial). Seeing the rods removed and the casket carefully descending, chills ran down his spine and he finally scurried off to catch up with Nate and Harry.

…

The dinner at the Jeevas home was less of a dinner and more of a '_Help Harry pack up Mail's things -And oh, by the way, there's leftovers in the fridge if you get hungry_.'

No one ate anyways.

The remainder of the evening entirely revolved around going through the redhead's personal possessions and packing them up.

Rifling through everything, Harry was surprised to find a disk, not unlike one of the many he used for storing programs and codes. He waited patiently for his guests to bid farewell and take their leave before he slid it into the drive and booted a foreign program.

He looked it over and found it to be (_almost_) incriminatingly similar to the proxy he'd been creating for work. The only difference was… this version was nearly complete and devoid of errors.


	3. Chapter 2

**Title: **Love Bytes

**Summary: **One man's nightmare is another man's dream. When dreams turn to nightmares, it becomes a never-ending cycle. -Co-Authored between CatatonicVanity and Mello's Favorite Reject.

**Disclaimer: **Neither CV or MFR own DN or anything that may be referenced. The plot is semi-cliché but the wordplay is credited to either writer.

Author's Note(s): This is credited to Mello's Favorite Reject. He wrote pretty much the whole thing, so... yeah.

…

**CHAPTER TWO:**

Five years had passed since the death of the Jeevas boy, and though Harry would forever be in grievance and Nate would always remember and respect the deceased teen, Mello's thoughts had drifted and now his focus was solely on his own life.

He'd just turned 21; the world was supposed to be his; he waited with palms up and fingers extended, hoping for the chance to crush the world in his grip, but… as he stood with his back to the wind and his feet at the edge of the Parker Morris building, his eyes swept over the clouded horizon and then dropped to the insect-like population beneath him.

For the slightest second, he felt himself falling, dropping into oblivion and falling into the hands of the demons that had landed him in the parasitic Hell. But in reality, his feet were planted firmly in place, and he turned away, deciding that suicide was not the way to go.

As horrid as his life had turned out to be, he was determined to make the best of it.

Adjusting his coat to better shield himself from the biting currents, he graduated to the fire escape and trekked down the rickety structure, hitting the ground and slipping his hands into his pockets at the start of the brief journey inside the Parker Morris.

Once inside, he kept his head low, face averted from view of the cameras; he stalked through the lobby, past the receptionist, and through a door with a label that read: _Authorized Personnel Only. _The door shut heavily behind him. He casually paced over to the Super Computer that took up a vast section of the room, linked to dozens of satellites and streaming constant feeds to dozens of neighboring laptops.

This was it; this was his goal.

He pulled his gloved hands from his pockets, producing a few necessities: an access card, adhesive prints, a disk, and a flash drive. He looked at the main monitor and skimmed the codes that trailed, understanding most of the hexes and threads without a second thought. Granted, technology wasn't something he cared for, it was important in his line of work.

Flipping open the scanner and activating the code sequence, he waited for it to load while he applied the adhesive strips to his gloved fingers before pressing it against the glass. -Fake fingerprints -how else was he to get into such a heavily guarded system?

He suppressed a chuckle at how simple this was, considering he was going to destroy the Credit Union from the inside out… and no one suspected a thing.

Once the false prints were scanned, he slipped the access card into the registration slot and peeled the adhesive strips from his gloves and ducked them into a concealed pouch in his jacket. Finally, he could insert the flash drive and use the contents to bypass any and all security. -Fuck, he appreciated good hackers in his line of work. Lastly, he inserted the disk and began to download and copy various programs that were supposed to be invisible to the outside world.

But this was Mello, and he was a good little Script Kiddie for his boss.

Script Kiddie. The very name was insulting. Mello was smarter than that; he knew his IQ and combat capabilities, but Ross used him for the bitch-work: he was a drug-running tech-thief who lived his life under an alias, being at a constant risk and receiving considerably low pay for his efforts.

But everyone had to start somewhere, and in this fucked up system, he was at the bottom of the food chain.

Once the program was safely copied, a large cryptic ERROR message popped up and he took it as a warning to get going. He ejected the disk, grabbed the flash drive and access pass and turned away, trying for a casual stride on his way out. He gave a forced smile and a half-hearted wave to passersby as he exited. The moment his feet were on the pavement and he stole himself into a neighboring lot, his nerves calmed and he could relax.

Locating a crepe van that had a cliché company logo on the side, he jerked open the door and found the keys inside. He slid inside and ignited the engine, pulling out of the lot and into an alley five blocks away. Parking there, he climbed in the back, found a box full of clothes and changed, slipping on a delivery uniform and a fresh pair of gloves; the items he had in his previous jacket were dropped into a quaint little package and he got out of the van, carrying said box into the nearest building; it was a hotel of sorts.

Walking up to the Receptionist, he appeared as stoic as ever, asking the room number of a man named Snydar. Before the receptionist could ask, Mello gestured to the box and said: 'delivery.' Not another word was exchanged as a set of keys were passed to him.

Looking at the number on the tag attached to the keys, he found the room number he needed and headed for the elevator. From there, he ventured to the 9th floor, third room on the left. Once again, this door was unlocked and he went in unheeded. As he did before, he changed his clothes, this time wearing a fancy tail coat and tie, looking tidy and wealthy with the European label and Italian shoes. He folded his delivery outfit and placed it in an empty drawer; then he opened the box, pocketed the disk and placed the remaining items inside the drawer next to the clothes and hat. Finally, he discarded the box and left the room, inconspicuously walking out and finding his own motorcycle waiting for him; the keys were handed to him by a stranger on the corner.

Why the charade? Why be so complicated? Simple. The more costume changes and stops between his thefts, the less easy it would be for him to get caught or connected to his co-workers, most of which were Mafia affiliates.

Taking the bike, he revved the engine before peeling out and just enjoying the wind in his hair… even if he had to dress in starchy clothes that didn't quite fit his critiques in wardrobe; it was better that he didn't question his superior's orders.

Eventually, he ended up at the assigned headquarters, just as his boss asked of him. As usual, it was a rather imposing building, large in stature and twice as long, with blackened windows and cast iron doors. Walking in and heading to the main meeting room, he tossed the program onto a card table and took a seat on a tacky sofa.

He was beyond the means of being bothered by the strong stench of sex and cigar smoke and stale whiskey, and he was just as impervious to the icy stares of the thugs that huddled around.

He avoided eye contact, not out of respect for others, but for the fact that he found them unimportant and unworthy of his time.

Rod Ross, the big guy in charge of this particular group, announced his own attendance with a thundering footsteps and a throaty chuckle -the kind that could only be given by powerful men who were mildly intoxicated. "I see little Mello's back; how'd it go, kid?"

"I'm here, aren't I? The program's on the table," the blonde said curtly, blue eyes firing a nasty glare at his boss, showing the passion and defiance he fought to repress.

Rod suddenly looked amused, face splitting with the yellow-toothed grin he spared. "The program's junk, kid. We were given false information about it."

"Fuck! Do you realize how much of a pain it was to get it?! -Well, okay, so it wasn't that big a deal, but I could've gotten caught at any time! Then what? I'd be in jail, and-"

"Prison, Mello; not jail. And we all know that your sweet ass would be raped again and again."

"Whatever," was all the response that such a comment provoked, though the blonde's brain was bubbling with unexposed repose, quick quips that wanted to bubble up but would forever go undeclared.

Taunts and jeers and jokes were passed before Rod spoke again. "New job for you, Mello. Severall's Hospital needs a new janitor. That position is yours to fill; you'll receive a regular salary from there, as well as pay from me… for the drugs I want you to smuggle in and out."

Mello gave no refusal, but he didn't openly accept either.

He left in a hurry; he had other jobs to complete before his day was up.

He worked at a local theater, as a projectionist. It was an old theatre. The new ones have entire films spliced onto one or two giant reels, but the older ones have a single film split between five or six reels. New theaters need only one projector to show a film; older ones -ones like this - they required two. As a projectionist, Mello would run two projectors at once, keeping one on Standby while the other played normally, sometimes spliced with subliminal messages or small bits of pornography. As a projectionist, he stood between two projectors, both hands on levers. Close one, open the other when cued. He looks for the signal. Two dots in the upper right corner is a warning. One dot is the signal for the switch. The change itself occurs, the film goes on, and no in the audience has the slightest clue that a Changeover has taken place. It's a dream, a short slumber in which images are mindlessly absorbed; they don't know everything they're seeing, and when it's all over, life goes on like they didn't see a wet, weeping close up of a vagina 4 stories tall. No, there was no giant penis, pulsing with lust and dripping with bliss. No, for one-sixtieth of a second, those images weren't in a special screening of Cinderella or Homeward Bound.

Sarcasm.

Mello's life held a lot of sarcasm.

And irony. A hell of a lot of irony.

For instance, when he job as a projectionist (making $3.50 an hour; $7 per movie) was over, he found himself at a local parch, sitting next to an old lady who fed the birds every Saturday.

Today was Saturday; the birds were getting fat; the lady was getting older and sicker each week.

Brain parasites, the lady once said, attesting her illness to the blonde who, honestly, didn't give a damn. The parasitic agents attacked particular lobes of the brain and were gradually consuming the fluid around her spinal cord.

Poor Ms. Anna Lee. (_Was that even her name?)_

Mello couldn't bring himself to care, but on this particular Saturday, when the lady was feeding the birds and he stared at the small fountain display, he noticed the birds flock and squawk, acting odd, contrast to their usual chirping.

"You okay, ma'am?" he asked off-handedly as he noticed the lack of her wheezing breath. He looked to her, and she was limp, eyes closed and head down. As if she was sleeping. But a quick inspection told him that she didn't fall asleep.

She died.

As casually as possible, Mello left the bench and wandered off, not needing the dramatics that would come of it.

Finding his motorcycle, he thought of home.

Home was a shitty apartment, shelled by 1 foot of concrete and boxed away from his neighbors. The concrete was important when his neighbor's hearing aide wasn't working and he had to watch his favorite game shows on full blast.

Home had nice things, even though he was piss poor. Money came in, and it was spent on that nice new lamp with the designer base, corkscrew bulb, multiple-dimming settings, and environment-friendly paper dome-shade. Home had that Strinne striped sofa and that quaint designer table -the green and orange one that was comprised of two pieces that went together to form a yin-yang. Home had a filing unit; handmade dishes from some aborigine tribe somewhere; silver cutlery; and nice Persian rugs. Home had a fridge full of the latest condiments, but no food.

It looked like a page from an IKEA magazine.

Mello hated it. He spent his whole life acquiring these things, building a nest, but… when you waste life owning material things, eventually, those material things own you.

It's everywhere, and Mello can't escape.

His clothes, he needed them. His bike, he had to have it. His chocolate, the only food source that mattered.

But it wasn't real, and he knew it; he hated it.

Riding home on his nice new, shiny motorcycle, he prayed for a fire to his home; he prayed for the pilot light in his stove to go out and gas to leak; he prayed for a spark from the fridge compressor to cause detonation. He prayed for arson.

But as his bike took him to his apartment's lot, he didn't see any fire or destruction. Everything was fine, normal, and well put together.

Just like he wanted to be.

But he was poor and broken. Poor because he lacked money; any money he had went towards what he didn't need.

_Mello used to go to the bathroom with pornography. Now he just looks at furniture catalogs._

He killed the engine and headed inside, fifteenth floor -not that he paid his own bills and earned the right to live there.

He entered his tiny home, with the luxuries he didn't want and couldn't afford, and he took a seat on his expensive sofa. His boots were still on as he glanced at the second-rate desktop in the corner on the nice new stand.

He should get a new computer, but he doesn't need one.

_He'll get one anyways._

Why? Because, he gets a sofa or a coffee table, and he gets a TV and a rug, and no matter what sort of hokum and despair life throws at him, he can go to bed at night thinking: _'at least I've got that sofa, that table, that TV, and that rug. Yes, thank you, I'm happy.'_

Always so polite in his own mind, but the world is cruel, and he's grown spiteful.

-He ponders his day and briefly contemplates the meaning of life. Maybe he'll attend church Sunday? No, most likely not.

Then he recalls the disk he stole.

_What to do with it?_

He finds himself in front of that pathetic desktop; he really needs a new one.

He inserts the disk into the drive.

At first there's nothing, just the stereotypical picture of Stonehenge staring back at him from under a blue sky. Then the screen goes black and a long line of codes begin to appear in rapid succession, too fast for even Mello to read. He eyes it apprehensively and tries not to let his headache be fueled by the green numbers and letters that are zipping across the screen.

Then it goes black again before Stonehenge appears again; a search of the taskbar and the icons on his desktop tell him that there is no difference. So he sighs and puts the desktop on hibernation (which he knows is bad, but perhaps the desktop should really crash before he gets a new one) throwing the disk and the case onto his coffee table; maybe he could sell it to someone else. But the thought is quickly banished as a wave of dizziness and queasiness washes over him and he finds his feet carrying him to the bedroom. No, no time to admire that nice bed with the beautiful frame like most would before he strips and slides under the covers. Sleep quickly consumes him and for a brief moment, he's back on the roof of the Parker Morris building with the wind gently pushing him over the side.


	4. Chapter 3

**Title: **Love Bytes

**Summary: **One man's nightmare is another man's dream. When dreams turn to nightmares, it becomes a never-ending cycle. -Co-Authored between CatatonicVanity and Mello's Favorite Reject.

**Disclaimer: **Neither CV or MFR own DN or anything that may be referenced. The plot is semi-cliché but the wordplay is credited to either writer.

Author's Note(s): Hello there! Been a while, ne? Well, sorry about that. But, hey, there have been a disheartening number of reviews. So like, please review. Yeah.

…

**CHAPTER THREE:**

Mello hissed as he opened his eyes, cursing the light that streamed through the windows and warned him of a new day and hell to face. He wanted nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, cocooned in his blankets. But then the source of sound that woke him made itself apparent and he sat up, brows furrowing at the sound of his desktop beeping. The geeky part of his brain (because we all have one, really) mimicked the sound and followed it with the stereotypical "You've Got Mail!"

Disrobing the blankets and coaxing his exhausted form from the bed, he got to his feet and lumbered over to the desktop, eyes half-lidded and mind still addled with sleep. His hand found the mouse and he checked his messages, finding no surprise at the simple words that made him inwardly cringe and outwardly force apathy.

_Blondie. 20-6; Marketing. 04-7; Sp Op. 11-9; Xdental._

The message was easily interpreted by the blonde, though any other person might find confusion if such things were to cross their line of vision and comprehension.

Reading the message one last time, Mello translated times and tasks, knowing exactly what was expected of him for the time being.

_Blondie_ -such a dreadful and degrading nickname.

_20-6 -_A clever way to display time. The number 20 represents minutes past the hour. The number 6 represents the hour itself. The fact that it is displayed as 20-6 (rather than 6:20) is a warning of how great is the risk factor.

If the time were to be displayed normally, then the task was usually more menial and less incriminating; there was no real reason to slink along the shadows. But since the time was displayed in an oppositional manner, the odds of getting killed or apprehended were greater.

Likewise, 04-7 meant 7:04. And 11-9 meant 9:11. The trivial words after were coded as well, but Mello was well-versed in his profession, and he easily understood what was expected of him.

…

After pulling himself together, Mello strapped on a watch and found himself at a meat-packing plant two towns over; he arrived at exactly 6:20. An alarm on his watch beeped, but he silenced it with the press of a button; then he was greeted with the sight of a shiny black Maserati Merak GTR.

The car looked severely out of place for this particular rundown shithole of a town, and therefore it was suspicious.

But being suspicious meant that it would draw attention: from bystanders and cops, thus the blonde decided that it must be a decoy target. Just in case... -

A man in black with an ominous appearance got out of the sleek vehicle and grabbed a package from the side of the curb before slipping back into the vehicle and driving off. Sure enough, the famed lights of red and blue flashed and a line of squad cars were in hot pursuit.

But Mello kept his cool, straddling his motorcycle and biding his time. And after a moment or two, a quaint little Dodge Neon sputtered into view; the muffler was loud and there were numerous chips and dents all over the small vehicle.

The door to the Neon opened with mild difficulty on behalf of a child in the passenger seat. That child quickly grabbed a backpack from the car and literally skipped toward the blonde that cloaked himself in the shadows of the pre-dawning abyss. Then, halting a few feet away from the blonde, the child dropped the backpack, turned on heel, and scampered back to the vehicle.

Mello simply watched with a sense of boredom and fatigue, still being drowsy from the fitful sleep the night before. When he watched the shitty little car pull away, he claimed the backpack and looked inside, finding a key and a slip of paper, on which was a crudely scripted address.

-It didn't take a genius to know what he was supposed to do now.

His motorcycle acted as a trusty steed and he made his way through the morning traffic. The chill of the morn had already settled over his skin, but the rays that peaked onto the backdrop were beginning to warm him pleasantly, though he paid little mind to comfort as he entered the parking lot of an old Inn.

Hesitantly leaving his bike behind, he entered the old building and found it (unsurprisingly empty.)

Screams met his ears, echoing off the walls and daring him to turn back... but he couldn't run. He wouldn't leave. He had a job to complete, and he wasn't a quitter. He was nothing if not capable.

So he pressed on, clutching the key tightly and approaching an elevator... only to find it X'ed with CAUTION tape and sporting a pink Post-It note that read: '4a8.'

Taking that as a message left for him, he located the stairs and began his ascension, taking one steep step at a time until he landed himself on the fourth floor. Then he located a strait -now, in normal cases, a strait is a narrow body of water that is used to connect two larger bodies of water, but in this case, it was a narrow passage lined with doors, and it connected two much larger halls that were also lined in doors.

Once in the strait and noticing how it a red letter A was tagged on a wall, he found room number 8 and slid the key into the lock. A system of tumblers aligned and the door drew open.

He stepped inside, and bile rose in his throat at what he saw.

Blood.

Everywhere.

On the walls. Bloody prints and smudges where hands had desperately grappled.

On the floors. Where the crimson sins had pooled and soaked into the carpet fibers.

On the ceiling. Where spots of deep red had splattered in a display that could not be captured on any canvas.

It was quite a sight, but the naked corpse that had been defiled and discarded was truly sickening, limps outstretched provocatively and hair matted with fluids; lips parted in a silent scream and deep gashes liner her lithe body in a way that nearly produced the Doppler Effect.

Seeing this, Mello truly wanted to be sick and disturbed, but... after a deep breath and a shake of his head, the sight was about as intimidating as a kitten sleeping inside a shoe.

So the blonde set to work.

Cleaning.

But not before disposing of body.

He grabbed a stiffening limb and dragged the corpse from the bed and onto the floor. He rid her hand of a wedding ring and pocketed the precious metal before wrapping the body in a blanket and dragging her out of the room, through the strait and to the hall, and then down four flights of stairs.

He passed bystanders along the way, but many were either crack whores or coke addicts who were more worried about getting their fix than a strange man with a blood-soaked sheet that so obviously outlined a body.

He carted the cadaver to an alley two streets over and simply left it on the ground. Then he headed back to the Inn and to room 4a8 to begin cleaning the bloodstains to the best of his ability. Anything that he couldn't clean would require professional help, and that usually resulted in an even bigger mess, since it was so hard to trust outsiders.

…

Mello had been able to clean the mess, and he'd checked his watch religiously all the while. But then came the next task he needed to complete, and as his watch so rudely alarmed, he was running behind schedule.

So he hopped on his motorcycle, forgoing a helmet, and kicked the engine to life, throwing the bloodstained gloves behind himself easily. He revved the engine and pushed the speed of the sleek bike well over the speed limit, narrowing his eyes against the wind and weaving in and out of traffic. A curse was whispered to the wind when sirens sounded behind him and he scanned his surroundings, quickly deciding that in the next break in traffic, he'd hop the median of the freeway. The service and back roads would get him where he needed to go. So he turned sharply and jumped the median, weaving his way through oncoming traffic.

He managed to ditch the freeway and the cops chasing him and sped up, leaning over the handlebars and skidding into the parking lot of the building he was to be in. He checked his watch and found that his reckless driving had paid off, putting him there a minute before the scheduled time. He kicked out the stand on his bike and strode over to the car that would take him and two others to the rendezvous point. His eyes were wide and his hands shook from the adrenaline of being in such a life threatening position as he slid into the car, coming off of the high and being hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion.

But no matter.

For the next hour and a half, he carefully placed cocaine and heroin in different crates to be shipped off somewhere; where, he didn't care. He folded the bags of the substance and wrapped them in several sheets of plastic before pouring coffee beans over the drugs in a thick layer of strong smelling deterrent. This continued in a routine Mello was all too familiar with until his watch beeped obnoxiously again and he straightened. As if on cue, his bike slid into the warehouse and the kickstand flipped out. Mello exchanged places with the man in the tailored suit and began the drive three small suburbs over.

_Xdental_. A small town murderer that was terrorizing a small suburb and killing off families of Ross's men. He was famous for forcibly cutting open the face of his victim and taking out the entire jaw, erasing chances of identification through dental records. Mello's job was simple: kill him. Destroy the body. A paper was taped to the handlebars of the bike that showed an address that he'd likely find his terrorist at. So he drove on, committing the address to memory and trying to shake the fatigue.

When he arrived at the address, he strode in as though he owned the place, finding nothing. He sighed and began a twisted treasure hunt, finding a letter stuffed in the cushions of the couch.

_Blondie: He's staying at this motel. Upstairs in the bathtub is nitric acid. There's a black Corolla in the parking lot, keys are under the seat._

Under that was an address.

Mello sighed and got up, lighting the paper on fire and dropping it in the fireplace. He watched the embers flicker and die before he left the house, closing the door behind him. Then he straddled his bike and felt a surge of adrenaline burst through him.

This was it; this was what he was good at. He cracked his knuckles and took off.

He arrived at the motel in about ten minutes. Looking at the shady establishment, he wasn't sure he wanted to leave his precious bike here, but he supposed he didn't really have a choice. He parked next to the Corolla he was to cart the body back in. Then he walked under the caved in balcony ceiling to room 104, pressing his ear against the wood and listening. He heard rustling and gasping, to which he rolled his eyes and pushed the door ajar.

He felt bile rise in his throat again at the sight that met him.

A girl-his next victim, no doubt-was on her knees at the foot of the bed. The gangly, sick looking man had one hand fisted in her hair, guiding her while she gave him a blowjob.

Mello closed the door with an audible click and unfastened the safety on his gun, pointing it at the man on the bed. Without looking, he spoke to the girl.

"Get dressed. Get out. This didn't happen," he demanded in a cold voice. She whimpered and did as she was told, running from the room holding her shoes. Mello locked the door behind her and approached the man on the bed, gun still trained on his head.

"Who are you?" the murderer finally demanded. Mello cracked a wicked, toothy grin.

"Your worst nightmare," he replied in a chilling tone. _I always wanted to say that, _he thought to himself before lowering the gun and snapping the man's neck with snake-like speed. Then he dropped the body on the floor and knelt, crossing himself and murmuring a soft prayer for forgiveness. Then he lifted the body over his shoulder and carted it out to the Corolla, tossing it in the trunk. Crack addicts stumbled past him and he sighed heavily, hating his job.

Fifteen minutes later, he was covering the bathtub in a tarp while the acid burned the body away. It would be gone in twenty four hours and someone else would be ridding the place of the acid and water that was left.

Mello opened his phone and hit his boss's speed dial, waiting the few seconds before the sound of a stoned man answered. Mello suppressed a sigh and shook his head.

"He's dead and the body is gone. What now?"

"Nothing for now, kid." Mello flipped the phone shut and drove the Corolla back to the hotel, picking up his bike and heading for home.

A quick stop at his apartment to gather his schoolbooks later and he was straddling his bike again, swinging his bag over his shoulder and heading towards a community college. It was second rate, the education was kind of crappy and he paid far too much money for it, but he didn't care at that point. He parked and began striding through the parking lot, giving half hearted waves to those who recognized him from his few times showing up. Checking his watch, he sighed when he realized that the seminar he'd wanted to attend was already over.

A twinge of annoyance ripped through him but was gone just as quick, like removing a Band-Aid. Glancing at his trusty watch one last time, he deduced that, if he hurried, he could still make it in time for a lesson in Forensics; in fact, he was sure they'd be running an analysis on handwriting, as well as reviewing what they already knew on arson and ballistics.

The class would be easy, but that hardly mattered.

-Entering the class and allowing a snide smirk to span his cheeks at his peers, he entered the Forensics Lab and waited for the lesson to begin. The professor showed up considerably late with disheveled clothes, no tie, and 5 o'clock shadow; he looked exhausted as he noisily sorted through papers and murmured about a 'cheating, dirty, cock-sucking wife.'

... But the blonde toward the back of the room paid little attention to the angered rants; instead, he opened a book and looked over the lesson for himself, allowing himself to ease into the environment. His eyes met, regarded and dismissed each word at an incredible pace, and he easily processed and related every topic before the professor had even set up the projector and began to explain their next endeavor.

Surprisingly, Mello had been wrong on their current lesson. Instead they were working on identification. Fingerprints, dental molds, skin cells, hair follicles, finger nail residue; they even discussed the relevance of femur length in males and females.

Taking notes furiously and participating like an eager teacher's pet, Mello was able to lose himself in the juvenile's procedures of study, and for an hour... he could almost forget the sound of a warm, wet carcass falling to the floor.

-Before long, the room became empty and the professor was packing up, leaving Mello to do the same. Putting the borrowed text book away and heading for the exit, he could feel an odd emptiness pulling him into a suffocating grasp.

He felt like he was deteriorating, even when the cool, crisp air met his lungs and the sun bathed his skin, he still felt as if he was sinking six feet under. He still felt as if he needed to claw his way out or die trying.

Still, he finds his prized form of transportation: a motorcycle, sleek and black and lethal: a warning sign with a strained sense of irony plastered between handle grips and tail lights.

Coaxing the beautiful death trap to life and reveling in its roar, he considered going home... to the nest he'd built but never truly lived in. That thought quickly left his mind and he soon found himself kicking off and speeding away from the college that alternated as a stress reliever, heading down a path he hadn't traveled in far too long.

…

When he entered the house, he felt himself growing weaker and smaller; Mello eroded away until Mihael was all that remained. He looked around the shambles of the house and felt a pang of regret; he, at least, lived decently. Not that he paid for it, and his feelings lacked logic, but when he looked at his dirty, rag-clad family they remained nonetheless.

"Mihael," a young girl said softly in greeting. Her voice was hoarse and lacked any emotion. Mihael nodded in her direction and kept walking, only to find two teenage boys in a kitchen room of sorts. They were facing each other, hunched over and washing their clothes in a bucket with a washboard. They looked up and glared at him through hollow eyes.

"Fag," one spit before looking down again. The other continued to glare at him spitefully while Mihael felt shame bubbling in his veins. He finally looked away and continued down the hall, stepping over mice carcasses and sunken in boards until he reached the end. Then he stopped and took a deep breath before pushing open a door that hung on one hinge.

"Mama?" he called to the bone thin woman who was hunched over a large bucket. She whipped her head around and looked up at him before sneering.

"What do _you_ want?" she hissed at him. He kept a poker face and ignored the twinge in his gut at her tone of voice.

"I wanted to see you," he responded. "I wanted to see how you and the children were doing."

"We're doing fine." Mihael scoffed and let his exasperation show through as he looked at the falling apart room.

"No you aren't," he cried, flinging his arm out in a wild gesture. "Mama, you're starving. The children are starving. If Social Services knew about this…" he let the sentence trail off. His mother growled and stood shakily.

"They won't! My only real child left me," she spit, pointing at Mihael. "I won't let them take away the ones I had to pay and fight for! When Henry comes back, it'll all be better."

"Mama, Father is not coming back!" he finally yelled at her. "Don't you see that? He left four years ago. He isn't coming back."

"Shut up, fag!" one of the boys hissed, covering the little girl's ears. Mihael turned to find that the children had gathered in an audience for their screaming match. "Of course he is!" Mihael snorted, taking in the sad appearance of the adopted children. The little girl had thin hair of ebony, olive skin and dark eyes. The younger boy had pale, freckled skin and orange hair that labeled him a carrot-top. The eldest boy had dark brown hair and a seemingly perpetual tan.

"Of course he's coming back!" May hissed at him in a venomous voice. Then her eyes turned wicked and her face morphed into a sly grin. "So Mihael, have you decided you like girls yet? Or are you still a homo? And my, my, would you look at that? You still wear that pretty rosary, even though you work for murderers and thieves. Fucking hypocrite." Mihael staggered a step back and shook his head.

"Fine," he sighed, brushing the children out of his way and heading for the door. Then he stopped and turned as though to say something before sighing and letting his shoulders slump. "I love you Mama," he breathed, though the sound echoed like he'd yelled it. Then he made his way to the pretty motorbike and shot an icy glare at the petty street thugs that were looking at the bike in an appraising sort of way. He slid onto the death trap and yelped, ducking as a liquor bottle sailed over his head. He revved the engine and peeled away, casting one sad glance at the house before rounding the corner.

When he was a safe distance away from the house, he stopped the bike in a parking lot and planted his feet firmly on the ground. Then he slumped forward, pressing his forehead to the cool metal. He ran through the events of his day in his mind and –not for the first time- found himself disgusted. When he finally looked up, he realized he was in the parking lot of a little corner store. He lethargically pulled himself up and made his way to the store, wandering through the aisles and grabbing random bits of chocolate. Then he rounded a corner and found himself face-to-face with a familiar fluff ball.

"Mello," Near said in acknowledgement. Mello kept his eyes forward and kept walking, unsurprised that Near followed him to the register. "It has been a while, has it not?" Mello ignored the question.

"Yes," the white haired boy said as he walked with Mello out to the bike. "You've changed quite a bit." Mello squeezed his eyes shut as he mounted the bike.

"I know you hate it," Near said softly. "But you won't do anything about it, will you? Your misery... is your fault. You could fix things. You can always walk away, and when you do... I'll be-" The blonde never heard the end of the sentence, instead burning rubber and peeling away.

"Stupid Nate," he snarled to the air, telling himself that the stinging in his eyes and the tears on his face were because of the wind. Thoughts invaded his mind and he soon found himself swirling into depression. He couldn't walk away; he'd be caught by the police and put in prison for the rest of his life. Or even worse, he'd be caught by Ross and tormented for leaving before he was killed.

Before he knew what was happening, he was at the house of someone affiliated with the Mafia. The junkie at the door eyed him appreciatively before asking what he wanted.

"Dope. And a lot of it," Mello responded. The man's eyes widened and he opened the door enough for Mello to slip inside.

"How much we talkin'?" the man asked him as he approached a hall closet, pulling up the floorboards and bringing out syringes and bags.

"Two bags," Mello murmured, willing his resolve to stay hardened. The man's eyes widened.

"Okay," he breathed, shaking slightly. Mello looked away with a grimace. Then he worked seduction into his tone and body.

"I don't have any cash… but surely there's something else I could give you?" he breathed, running his fingers along the man's chest.

Two hours later, the blonde stumbled into his apartment and stuffed chocolate into his mouth, willing that awful taste away and pulling out the heroine he'd acquired. As he began preparing the syringe for something he never thought he'd consider though, he was interrupted by a soft beep coming from… his desktop? Hn, perhaps it was crashing.

_And he'd never get a new one…_

But curiosity won over the blonde and he found his feet carrying him to the computer, where he found a simple black screen, with a flashing cursor and a single word written in green.

Hello.


End file.
